Oh Bill.
Yeah, Bill, it looks as if we need to have another talk.
Sorry about that, Bill, but you know I have to be the way I am, because you’re the way you are.
Probaby you’d better listen, Bill, because it’s for your own good; after all, I’m a nice guy, one of the nicest guys one can ever hope to meet, and don’t wish harm upon anyone.
And besides, when I do, I end up hurting myself more than the other guy. So I’d rather not.
As you know, Bill, I’m very good at detecting character flaws that inevitably lead to a self-imposed downfall, sometimes a cataclysmic self-destruction. I don’t suppose it’s necessary to cite examples.
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You’ve got plenty of those flaws, Bill, and I hope you’ve been working on resolving them, as I’d advised before.
“an open letter to William Rivers Pitt†(February 7, 2015)
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=100623.0“a second open letter to William Rivers Pitt†(February 12, 2015)
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=100713.0“a third open letter to William Rivers Pitt†(February 17, 2015)
http://conservativecave.com/index.php?topic=100809.0You’re a piece of work, Bill, but there is hope for you…..provided you pay heed to the advice and counsel of your friend franksolich.
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Anyway, Bill, now you went and posted this:
WilliamPitt (57,690 posts) Sat Feb 21, 2015, 01:09 PM
The Wreckers' Grand Canyon Intentions
Twenty years ago, my friend Kevin and I piled our ragged belongings into the back of his Chevy beater and drove from Massachusetts to California. It was November and we were worried about weather, so we dove south and traversed the country in a giant loop. We stopped in DC to visit friends, stopped in Alabama to visit family, and stopped in New Orleans for a night that will live in infamy…..blahblahblahblahblah…..
Bill, I
know what you’re trying to do, but you have it all wrong.
Being “literary†isn’t a matter of fluff and style; being literary’s a matter of saying things of
substance, no matter how plain, unadorned the piece is.
What you’re full of, Bill, isn’t substance.
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You know, Bill, when I moved out here back right after the scam that rocked the internet quit rocking, I noticed a miniature
Jungfrau-looking rise in the ground, about a city block away from the front porch of the house.
To outsiders, it looks just another bump or mound or small hill, but myself being about as inside as a Sandhillsian can get, recognized it as something man-made, but I wasn’t sure exactly what, or why.
I noticed the foliage on it stayed green clear until mid-December, long after all else had gone into winter hibernation, and once again began getting green about mid-February, way too early for plant life to wake up again.
That spring, then, I inquired about the matter.
I was told that the original settlers here, beginning in 1875, raised pigs, and that there’d been a big barn next to this mound. Pigs were raised here until the barn burned down in June 1950, the same day the socialists invaded Korea.
The people here, foreseeing a change in tastes, instead of rebuilding the barn and re-stocking it with pigs, switched over to raising cattle.
That
Jungfrau-looking mound, Bill is seventy-five years of piled-up pig manure, swine shit, antique hog excrement.
Of course, it’d lost its stench way back when Ike and Mamie were still in the White House, and its “texture†by the time Jack and Jackie were in the White House.
It looks like plain ordinary dirt now, Bill, frozen by the Arctic winters here in the Sandhills and baked by the Saharan summers.
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Upon learning this, Bill, I thought it so remarkable it needed a name.
There was a cat-litterbox inside the house that needed emptied, about the time I thought of a name.
So I walked it over there, and flinging its contents upon the protuberance, baptized it “the William Rivers Pitt,†a name that by now is famously known.
I’m not sure which of the two is the more renown, Bill, but whichever one it is, doesn’t make any difference, because they’re both the same thing.
